


Codename: Sailor Hawkeye

by crayyyonn



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Sailor Moon Crossover, bonus cameo by steve as sailor v, clintcoulson - Freeform, i don't know what happened either, not genderswap, preslash, yep you read that right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 13:02:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1942161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crayyyonn/pseuds/crayyyonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the way to work, Clint finds a talking cat. You'd think that would be the strangest thing to happen all day. You'd also be wrong.</p><p>In which Clint is Sailor Moon, Fury is Luna, and Phil is the snazzy Tuxedo Mask (because obvs).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Codename: Sailor Hawkeye

Clint is having a really,  _really_  bad day.

First, he wakes up from the strangest dream he’s ever had, where there’s handholding and kissing but nothing more than that and really, he’s more than a little miffed that his brain in REM-sleep is apparently willing to completely ignore his raging teenage hormones. At least give him something to work with if there’s going to be handsome strangers in his dreams, brain, come on.

And then he realizes he’s about this close to being fired from his job for the fourth time this month for being late and  _goddamnit where are his fucking shoes?_  He finally finds them behind his closet and sprints out of the house with Barney yelling after him to figure dinner out himself because he’ll be back late tonight, to which Clint bellows an acknowledgement back in kind.

He earns himself a dirty look from old Macmillan two doors down for that and Clint means to apologize, really he does, but that’s when he has to turn the corner so that’s what he does instead, and then promptly steps onto something soft and squishy and  _dear god, I really hope that was some kid’s teddy bear or something_ , he prays as he skids to a stop and turns around—oh dear god.

Yeah, it’s not a teddy bear.

What it _is_ is a black cat—kitten? —splatted on the ground thanks to Clint’s foot, so he takes a few measured steps forward, intending to check it over for injuries. There isn’t any blood, not that Clint could see, but he’s not about to abandon an animal in need, much less an animal hurt because of him. Slowly, he reaches for the cat and lifts it up to eye level, which is the exact moment when it raises its head to look Clint in the eye, and huh, one of its eye is surrounded by a lighter patch of fur, which Clint notes looks rather like an eyepatch. What a badass cat, he wants to say.

And then there’s a flash of deja vu in the back of Clint’s head that feels a little like being electrocuted.

“Whoa,” he says instead.

The cat opens and closes its mouth a few times, its eyes widening almost comically when it doesn’t make a sound. Clint feels the irrational urge to laugh--if anyone was going to happen on a mute stray it would be him—then gives in and chuckles for real when it starts scrabbling at the band-aids on its forehead. They’re arranged in a neat X, and Clint thinks he’s seeing the handiwork of the Petty kids down the street. It’s just like them to randomly band-aid a cat.

“Take it easy, kitty,” he soothes even as he laughs, balancing the disgruntled cat in one hand so he can carefully tear them off.

But apparently he isn’t careful enough, because the cat leaps into the air with a frantic—and impressively ear-splitting—yowl, and swipes its claws across Clint’s cheek.

“Fuck!” Clint yelps, instinctively slapping a hand onto them because Jesus  _fuck_  that stings. He looks at his palm, which is now covered in his blood, and winces. “Bad kitty,” he scolds. “Bad, bad kitty.”

The band-aids reveal some kind of winged emblem on its forehead and the cat backs away, a mutinous look on its face. Clint stands, brushing pavement dust off the knees of his jeans. He’s just about to give the cat a piece of his mind when he hears the distinct tolling of the clock tower from a distance.

“Oh, fuck fuck  _fuck_ ,” he bites out, before he dashes off in the direction of the coffee shop, all thoughts of antagonistic, ungrateful cats far from his head.

He's horribly late, but thankfully, he isn't fired.

It turns out to be a slow day, customers trickling in in dribs and drabs. With nothing much to do, Clint watches the clouds move across the sky outside the window, and his mind wanders to his weird dream from the morning. The silhouette seems familiar somehow in the light of day, though Clint is hard pressed to remember exactly where he recognizes it from. Clint’s social circle isn’t exactly brimming with men with defined builds and slightly crooked noses that look gorgeous in profile, much less men who were willing to kiss him, especially in this blue-collar town. He sighs, still resentful about not even getting onto second base with the stranger. Should have at least copped a feel, idiot, he tells his brain. His cheek continues to sting.

The rest of the day passes without any further incident and Clint feels a load sliding off his shoulders when his shift ends. Once he's handed the shop over to the afternoon kid, he strolls into town, intending to drop a small chunk of his week’s earnings on the slot machines. Flyers are thrust at him from every direction as he makes his way down the street. He grabs every single one of them. He's had a job handing them out before and he remembers well how it sucks, being ignored and avoided like he was vermin when all he'd wanted was for people to just take the damn things so he could go home already. It's not like it's a hardship to take a piece of paper and then chuck them a few trash cans over.

He takes the turn onto Main Street and lets out a low whistle. There's a new Avenging Sailor game, if the advertisements plastered all over the buildings are any indication. For a few moments, Clint daydreams about actually being the Captain, donning a mask and dispensing justice under the cover of night, and grins to himself. He's so lost in his imagination—he's currently taking out all manner of mythical creatures in his head—that he doesn't see where he's going and smacks right into a solid wall.

A warm, breathing, solid wall that turns out to be a warm, breathing, solid body. First the cat, now this, what is even Clint’s life?

He backs up immediately, murmuring an apology. The stranger—the very good-looking, very well-dressed stranger, amends the voice in his head, though who the fuck wears a full tuxedo in broad daylight, Jesus, Clint wonders if he’s touched in the head—looks unamused as he stares back at Clint. He looks like he’s about to say something caustic when he freezes, bright blue eyes narrowing slightly. The moment stretches indefinitely as Clint stares back, the swirl of deja vu shooting electricity down his spine and making his heartbeat roar in his ears.

Then a piece of paper flutters by, riding a breeze, and the moment is broken. The stranger plucks it cleanly out of the air, peering at it as Clint bends to pick up the rest of the flyers.

“ _‘BBW Stripper Party’_ ,” the stranger reads. “Is this what you're into?” he asks, tone as bland as if he’s discussing the weather.

Clint flushes and frowns, snatching the flyer out of the stranger's hand and crushing it into a ball. 

“Bite me,” he snarls. He stomps off in the direction of home, muttering, “I’ll show you what I'm into, you sarcastic motherfucker, who the fuck even wears tuxedos in the afternoon on the fucking street, for the love of Jesus. Just because you have those baby blues you think you can, ugh, you can shove them right up your ass…”

He throws himself onto his bed, fully intending to take a nap, but ends up tossing and turning a little before managing to doze off for what feels like five seconds, when his scratched-up cheek begins to throb in earnest and he jerks awake. Damn it all, the guy from the dream has just showed up, too. Sulkily, he lifts tentative fingers to his cheek as he sits up, which is when he notices the cat.

“You!” he gasps, pointing. “How the fuck did you find me, you evil incarnate?” He makes shooing motions at it.

There’s a sigh, and then, “Stand down, Barton,” comes the irritated reply.

Clint blinks. The cat is talking? Right. He’s still dreaming, then. Yawning, he starts to slide back under the covers, then scrambles back in surprise when the cat takes a flying leap and lands on his belly. It stalks up Clint’s chest until it’s eye to eye with him.

“This is not a dream.”

Clint blinks some more. “You’re a cat, and you’re talking. I don’t know what you’re doing here but this obviously isn’t the waking world so I’m just gonna—”

“Not. A dream, Barton.” The cat plops itself into a sitting position.

“My name is Fury, and I’ve been looking for you. Good thing you took those band-aids off, they were blocking my powers and took my voice away temporarily. I swear, I will kill those fucking kids if I ever get my paws on them.”

Clint is valiantly trying to process the cat—Fury’s—words, but then a circle of warmed metal lands on his chest, and _ooh, shiny_. He really doesn’t want to know where Fury had been keeping it all this while, though. “That’s for you.”

Warily, Clint sits up, dislodging Fury onto the sheets, and picks it up. “What is it?”

“Your transformation ring.”

“Transformation ring?”

“Yeah. Put it on, then say ‘Moon Prism Power, Make Up!’” Fury bares his teeth in a sly grin, and Clint shoots him an unamused look. 

“Uh huh. I don’t think so.”

Fury rolls his eyes. “Just put the motherfucking ring on, Barton.”

Clint scowls. “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a serious potty mouth for a cute kitty?” Still, he obediently slips the ring onto his index finger.

For a couple of seconds, nothing happens, then it’s like his body is filled with light. It starts from the depths of his belly button and radiates outwards, winding itself around Clint’s torso and arms and legs, finally moving up his neck and head. He’s blinded by light, yet he  _sees_ , clearer than he ever has. Everything around him is rendered into swaths of light of different intensity and his eyesight has never been this fantastic. The past, the present, the future, they all rush into his mind all at once until he feels like his head is about to explode from all that he knows. And then it ends and the light lines fade as they solidify into outlines of the objects they originally were, albeit sharper.

“Whoa.” He blinks, trying to get rid of the residual glow, but they stubbornly stay at the edges of his vision. “That was a trip. What the hell was that?”

“That was your transformation.” Fury sounds immensely pleased with himself. The smugness in his voice makes Clint want to deck him. The cat gestures at the mirror. “Go on, take a look.”

Clint turns, feeling his mouth fall open as he takes in his reflection. He looks… good. He’s dressed in some kind of sleeveless leather vest and pants, both of which cling to his body without restricting his movements. He’s got a pair of shades on which surprisingly doesn't darken his vision, and there’s also a quiver slung across his back, filled with arrows and something that… he reaches behind him with his left hand to grab it, and it slides out of the quiver to snap into a gorgeous recurve bow. Clint smiles, running reverent hands over it. He hasn’t touched a bow in years, ever since the circus, and boy has he missed the feeling.

Without warning, the nocking point of the bow lights up. Clint stares down at the blinking red light, dumbfounded, then presses a button on the bow when Fury tells him to. A panicked voice fills his ears, begging for help, and oh.  _That's_  what the things in his ears are for. He takes a second to tell Fury that hey, there’s some woman screaming in his ears, and the cat just growls impatiently at him to get his ass in gear. And then they are off, Clint following the tracker that appears on the inside of his not-just-shades shades, Fury bounding into step behind him with a battle cry.

Clint takes a quick second to appreciate the fact that he’s apparently landed himself one scarily badass, bloodthirsty cat.

The signal leads to a warehouse at the edge of town. Skidding to a stop at the slightly-ajar entrance, Clint turns to Fury, raising a silencing finger to his lips. Cautiously, he peeks through the gap in the door. It is dark inside, but apparently his shades also doubles (triples?) as night-vision goggles, and he picks out at least a dozen silhouettes. They aren’t moving but instead seem to be waiting for something, or someone, maybe. Then the voice starts screaming again, even more distressed than before, and Clint springs into action.

Kicking the door fully open, he rushes in, arrow already nocked and drawn. He feels Fury dashing in behind him, a tiny bundle of warmth zinging past his ankle, and starts to yell at him to stay back, when the cat leaps up into the air and slams himself against the wall. Bright lights instantly flood the warehouse. The dozen silhouettes turn out to be at least three dozen, gathered around the screaming woman, another looming above her in the center of the makeshift circle, and Clint looses the arrow.

He’s rusty, after a gap of so many years, and the arrow just whistles past evil lady’s ear to land harmlessly on the floor. Evil lady turns, all green-skinned and snake-eyed, ducking just in time to avoid Clint’s second arrow. She snarls, and as one, the crowd turns to face Clint. He feels the hair on his arms rise. Blank eyes, ashen faces, this is starting to feel a lot like one of those zombie apocalypse movies Clint loves to mock. Nocking a third arrow, he takes aim, getting ready to shoot something, anything, when an authoritative voice orders—

“No, don’t shoot them, they’re being controlled by her. Shoot her!”

Clint doesn’t turn, but from the corner of his eye, he spies a man in an honest-to-god tuxedo—just how many of these flashy freaks are there out there anyway—with an honest-to-god sword in his hand. He’s slashing it in front of him to make the puppet people keep a wide berth as he makes his way to the center. It seems to be working, although Clint privately thinks it’s only a matter of time before one of them will decide to take the plunge onto the blade.

Breathing deep, Clint lines up his shot, the world falling away to a muted roar as he focuses. It’s now or never.

“Take the shot!” Fury all but yowls at him, and Clint does. His arrow finally flies true, striking the monster in the heart. Clint braces himself but still almost staggers backwards in surprise when she crumbles into dust. The undead around her collapse as one.

Lowering his bow, Clint heaves a sigh of relief.

“Good job, Hawkeye.”

The stranger sheaths his sword, transforming it into a cane, which he taps on the floor as he makes his way toward Clint. The use of his old name throws him, as does the strange sense of familiarity, despite the mask obscuring half his face. Their eyes meet briefly, and Clint thinks he sees a flash of blue.

“Wait, what? How do you know my name?” Clint asks, but gets just a tiny quirk of lips in return. He blinks, and just like that, the man is at the entrance of the warehouse, about to step outside. “Wait!” Quickly, Clint dashes after him. “Who are you?”

When he's at the end of the street, the stranger turns to face Clint. A small smile plays at his lips.

“You may call me Coulson,” he says, just before he steps around the corner.

Putting on a burst of speed, Clint follows, but it’s like the stranger had melted into the shadows, or teleported away. Panting, he doubles over with his hands on his knees. Not a few moments later, he feels the now-familiar sensation of Fury slinking around his ankles.

“Coulson, huh,” he says, staring off into the street.

Clint slides a glance at him. “You know him?”

Fury shrugs, then grins. It's not exactly an attractive action for cats.

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> So this happened because I was flailing over Sailor Moon Crystal earlier, and because everything must in the end relate to C/C (it's a law somewhere), I thought, what if Phil was Tuxedo Mask... And everything spiraled from there. It might be a series, I don't know. At this point I don't pretend to assume I know what my brain is thinking anymore. I'm just along for the ride.


End file.
